The Stars that Incline Us
by paltropie
Summary: In the Forbidden Forest, instead of death, a seventeen year old Harry Potter made one choice that has altered the course of history. People aren't who they're supposed to be, and nothing is as it seems. The Dark Lord won the battle, but who will win the War?
1. Great Expectations

**The Stars that Incline Us **

From the Latin 'Astra inclinant, sed non obligant.', meaning 'The stars incline us, they do not bind us.'

**Chapter 1: Great Expectations **

"We, all who live, have  
A life that is lived  
And another life that is thought,  
And the only life we have  
It's the one that is divided  
In right or wrong."  
― Fernando Pessoa

* * *

As all mornings go, these days, Draco glowers at the veritable mountain of paperwork greeting him. He scowls, kicks the leg of his workstation, and watches helplessly as the parchment unexpectedly goes searching for the floor.

_It's too bloody early for this,_ he thinks, as he slumps in his chair, and considers quitting for the fourth time this week.

"We all know you're not going anywhere, Malfoy."

Draco doesn't need to look up to know who it is – he'd recognise that damned voice anywhere. And not to mention, the extremely poor taste in footwear, only just concealed by their standard red robes.

He's right, of course, not after working so hard for his place in the Auror Corps, but it's the principle of the thing.

"Piss off, Weasley."

Not coming as a surprise to anyone, Ron does not, in fact, piss off; instead, he grins, and Draco rolls his eyes irritably. How he's managed to breathe the same air as the git, much less watch his back for the better part of three years without hexing him into yesterday remains a mystery.

Ron perches on a square inch of empty space on Draco's desk and folds his arms.

"You know, I'm pretty sure that form should've been filed last week," he quips, the bastard, squinting at the documents at Draco's feet.

"Yes, well, if you actually did your own bloody paperwork..."

He leaves the sentence hanging, and, as expected, has to scoot away to avoid a kick in the shin.

They glare at each other, but it only lasts a second before they descend into giggles – dignified, on his part, not so much on Ron's.

It's then that Laverde stalks past and shoots them a dark look, not that his is the only one.

"Will you two idiots knock it off," their supervising officer hisses, his glare cutting. "Maybe you couldn't give an arse, but some of us are trying to win a war."

It isn't said, but Draco hears the implication anyway and cuts himself off without protest, even though it's his belief – and Ron's, obviously – that joviality, among other such things, is what's keeping them hopeful, and preventing them from simply Apparating right out of the Continent altogether.

"Sorry, sir," he mumbles, and were Lucius present to hear him, he'd have at least a cuff to the head for apologising – but alas, the man is rotting in Azkaban, and good riddance.

Draco pulls on his sleeves, and feeling Ron's eyes on him, knows instinctively there will be questions later.

"Get back to work, Malfoy," Laverde barks, and as he turns away, Draco catches a muttered phrase or two.

He flushes, feeling the stirrings of anger, but doesn't defend himself. Nor does he let Ron, sending a stinging hex his way before the redhead can do anything rash in his honour.

Ron yelps and attempts another kick at Draco, before turning serious.

"Why do you let them say shit like that?"

Draco arches a brow, answered by Ron's shrug.

"I got over it, why can't they?"

Draco shakes his head, wishing it were all that simple. Sometimes, he wishes he could think in black and white, like Gryffindor-to-the-core Ronald Weasley.

But then, he's not so sure Ron completely sees things that way, not after this partnership – which he was sure his instructors wanted to fail, just so they could take pleasure in booting him back out onto the streets, by the way – has actually worked, and become a genuine friendship, though he'll never admit that.

"They're not wrong, though," Draco returns, and goes to scratch at his left sleeve, a tic he's picked up over the years, even as the Mark has slowly ceased itching.

"Merlin, Malfoy, at this rate, you may as well slink right back to him."

Draco flinches, and Ron backpedals immediately.

"Shite, mate, I didn't mean it like that."

Ron still speaks before he thinks, sometimes, but Draco is used to it, and he knows Ron harbours no ill-intent. He waves the apology away.

"I just," Ron begins. "I hate how you don't say a word."

"He's our superior," Draco counters, and tilts his head to stare up at the patch of mould darkening the ceiling.

"You know I don't just mean Laverde," Ron pushes, and Draco knows it alright.

"I can handle McLaggen and Speke."

_And everyone else_, he doesn't say, but Ron knows it and he sighs.

"Relax, Draco, I'm not questioning your abilities," he pulls a face. "I'm just saying you shouldn't have to deal with it. Kingsley would listen."

It's not the first time Ron has suggested it, and if Draco knows his stubbornness, it won't be the last time either.

"The Minister," Draco says, stressing his title. "Has larger Basilisks to slay."

"I guess," Ron says, unconvinced, then quietens. "Still, isn't all this what pushed you lot to join up in the first place?"

He gestures.

"The ostracism, the hatred."

Draco can only speak for himself, and for him, it never was a deciding factor, but he knows that others sought the Dark Lord for belonging. He can't fault them, but after what he'd witnessed, what he'd gone through first-hand, he can't quite understand willing servitude to that madman.

"Doesn't explain why they stay," Draco points out, after that train of thought.

He knows he's said the wrong thing when Ron's expression goes stony.

"Doesn't explain it at all," he grunts.

They're edging into dangerous territory, here, and of course he's as curious, if not more, but risking having Ron sullen and brooding for much of the day isn't worth it.

"We all made our choices, Ron," he says.

"Right," his partner agrees absently, and Draco decides that more extreme measures are required.

Waggling his brows, a picture of innocence, he asks after Hermione.

"Shut up," Ron laughs, "We're fine where we are, thanks."

_Salazar, _he thinks, _just tie the knot already_, and opens his mouth to crack a dirty joke, when the alarms blare, startling them badly.

The office descends into chaos; chairs screeching, Laverde yelling, Ron swearing, as they haste to the Apparation point. When he sees the text that scrolls across the wall, _45 Woodrow Terrace, Muggle London, _he knows it'll be ugly, and though he hopes it's Snatchers, they're not called the Hazardous Operations Branch for nothing.

"Good luck, mate," Draco says, chancing a glance at Ron and seeing the same emotions playing across his face.

"Don't need it," he fires back. "I've got you."

Honestly, Draco isn't sure what else he expected. He smirks, and they Disapparate.

…

He's right – it's as ugly as they come.

The street is deceptively still, but the Dark Mark that hangs ominously above the house tells them all they need to know. Noticing the traces of children's' play on the lawns and the eyes peeking through blinds, Draco is grateful he's not an Obliviator.

Ron stands ramrod straight beside him, listening intently to Laverde's every word. They wince when they learn a family lives here, a Muggleborn wizard, Muggle wife and two young sons. Draco knows intimately what Death Eaters do to defenceless women and children, especially those close to a wizard – and a Muggleborn wizard at that – and even now has to suppress the urge to gag. He hopes it's not too late.

"We don't know what to expect, so be careful," Laverde finishes, then turns to glare at Draco. "Weasley, Malfoy, you bring up the rear."

"Yes, sir," he says, and elbows Ron, who grumbles his acquiescence.

Their group of eight filter in, wands drawn, led by Solis and Goldstein, and that's when it all goes to shit.

A scream issues from somewhere upstairs, and they're jumped. It's a near thing, but only Draco's reflexive _Protego_ prevents McLaggen from being struck down by a curse. McLaggen jerks a nod his way, their animosity momentarily disregarded in the field, and the fight is on. Draco dodges a white light, seeking Ron's back, and sends a Stunner at the masked Death Eater flanking a doorframe. He counts five others, and thank Merlin, they're not outnumbered.

The racket is deafening, and Draco can barely keep track of the spells flying around the confined space. The Death Eater counters, and Draco sidesteps the orange light, only for it to hit the plasterboard, and as it explodes, debris nicks his temple. He grimaces, but in the grand scheme of things, it's nothing, and wastes no time in sending a _Reducto _and _Diffindo_ in succession.

"Alright, mate?" Ron yells.

"Peachy, Weasley," he hollers back, and has to cast a _Protego_ to avoid being struck by purple flame.

Draco's eyes narrow, his senses sharpening. From the curse he'd just had to deflect, he knows it's Dolohov, and the sadist deserves only the worst. He parries the next curse, planting his feet for the offensive, when he hears Laverde shout over the din.

"Weasley, Malfoy, upstairs, go!"

They hurry, not bothering to reply, Draco covering as Ron takes the lead. He shoots off a _Reducto_, and smirks when it catches the side of Dolohov's shield. The man stumbles, and Draco thinks it might be Branstone – he's always liked that girl – who casts the _Expelliarmus_ and Body-Binds him.

The second floor is quiet, and, unusually for their present company, nothing looks out of place. In hindsight, Draco thinks this should've been warning enough. They spare cursory glances at every shadow, peeking cautiously through doorframes, searching for any hint of danger. And yet, were it not for that scream, or the commotion below them, Draco could almost believe that they'd mistaken the address.

But when they round the corner, and are faced by a closed door, Draco has a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He catches Ron's eye, who looks almost exaggeratedly optimistic. It's not a good look on him, Draco decides.

They approach slowly, and Draco's the one to touch the doorknob, who casts the _Alohomora_.

_One, two, three, _they mouth, and just like that, they're in.

"DMLE Aurors," he announces, eyes sweeping across the room. "Drop your wands, hands on your heads!"

Then he processes what he's seeing, and it's all he can do to stop his jaw from dropping. Whatever he'd been readying himself for, it hadn't been this.

The wizard is prone, limbs sprawling, and he doesn't have to check to know that he is dead, victim to the Killing Curse. The wife is huddled in a corner, cheeks smeared with crusted blood and tears, and she rocks back and forth, fixated, he supposes, on her children in the arms of the Ministry's Second-Most-Wanted, Harry Potter himself.

Ron is speechless, but he suspects it won't last long, and Draco hopes to defuse the situation before things can escalate. His grip on his wand is crushing, and he repeats himself, though his voice wavers.

"I said, place your hands on your head."

Potter ignores him.

"You heard him, Potter," Ron hisses, and it's right there in his ear.

Draco jumps.

Potter smiles, seemingly amused, and Draco curses himself for the show of weakness. It's a fact; Potter has always unsettled him, but right here, right now, is just about the worst moment possible.

"Are we on last-name basis now, Ron?" Potter inquires, his smile sharp around the edges.

"I swear to Godric, if you don't–"

"Now, now, I just want to talk," Potter interrupts.

Ron surges forward, eyes blazing, as Draco sees Potter's fingers subtly reaching into his trousers pocket, presumably for his wand, and he reaches out blindly to hold Ron back. Draco shoots him a look, saying _armed, _and still he makes to shake him off, until, with another pointed glance, he stresses the children. That, at least, will be enough to stop him.

"Not bloody likely," Ron scoffs, instead of decking Potter.

Ron's anger is palpable, rolling over him in waves, and Draco is thankful that the ire isn't directed at him. He wonders how Potter stares into that fury and comes out unflinching. But then, he supposes, the Dark Lord could do much worse.

Draco steels himself and inches towards Potter. He lowers his wand minutely, trusting Ron to step in should it go awry.

"Perhaps we'll be inclined to listen, if you were to release the children."

"Well, you see, Draco," and Draco startles to hear his name on those lips. "That particular decision lies with Mrs Roundhouse here."

Potter smirks and kisses the toddlers' foreheads, in a parody of affection. He shifts, and Draco spots bruises on the boys' arms, shaped distinctly like hands. He's sure Ron sees it too, if the stiffening in his shoulders weren't sign enough. They draw the same conclusion.

"I thought you hated the Dursleys, Potter?"

Potter's eyes harden, and his expression goes cold. His voice is pure ice when he speaks, and the room grows chillier with each word.

"If you think, for one second, that I would lay a hand on a child…"

There is a story there, but Draco doesn't want to find out this way. He shivers, as does Ron, and he isn't ashamed to look away. The raw power Potter radiates is impressive, and whoever doesn't fear it is a fool.

"Then explain," Ron ventures, braver than he'll ever be.

Draco doesn't miss the glower Potter aims at the woman, who cringes, and whispers "Take them", repetitively. He's confused, now, but he'll take whatever he can get, to ensure there aren't more casualties.

"You see, it wasn't that difficult, Mrs Roundhouse," Potter leers sweetly, if that weren't, by definition, impossible. "Your husband didn't need to die."

Draco recoils, disgusted to see someone discuss murder so flippantly.

"This isn't a laughing matter," he chews out, around the lump in his throat.

"Oh, I completely agree," Potter says, and sets the boys down, who start wailing almost immediately.

Before they can react, Potter draws his wand. He hears Ron roar an _Expelliarmus_, and dives to shield the children from whatever curse Potter has deigned to throw. The wand flies, and in the moment of silence that follows, Draco assesses his surroundings, only to note that the curse was a mere _Silencio_.

"What the hell do you think you're playing at?" he questions, stunned, as cackling echoes from downstairs.

Potter smirks, and even disarmed, advances, only to face Ron's Stunner. He keels over, hits the floor, and it's all rather anticlimactic.

"I should've done worse," Ron muses.

"Imagine the paperwork," Draco laughs, almost hysterical and unable to contain his relief that it hadn't gone balls up, all things considered, even if he couldn't shake the uncanny feeling that it had been just a little too easy.

He voices as much to Ron, who doesn't share in his suspicions.

"He probably saw it was us and pissed himself," Ron jokes, though Draco knows he's somewhat serious.

"I suppose," Draco replies, noncommittal, and busies himself with checking the children over for injuries.

Aside from the bruises, and what appears to be a sprained wrist in one of the boys, they've escaped unscathed. Whatever Ron says, they've been lucky today, and he hopes their co-workers have been, too.

Ron swiftly moves to secure Potter in magic-dampening restraints, and goes on to confirm Roundhouse's death, while Draco places the struggling children under the care of their mother. She cowers, as if their presence terrifies her, and Draco is nonplussed.

"What's the situation up there?" someone – Laverde, most likely – calls, in the lull, and Draco lets the tension drain out of him.

Draco and Ron exchange looks.

"I think you'd better come see for yourself, sir," Draco answers.

Heavy footsteps follow, and as Draco turns to face Laverde's irritation, he catches the exact moment of surprise. The sharp intake of breath speaks for itself, and though his boss' jaw doesn't drop, it's a close thing.

"Is that…?"

Draco nods, once, barely able to believe it himself.

"You haven't been hexed, sir, I'm seeing this too," Ron adds, much less tactful.

Laverde scowls.

"Well, what in Merlin's name are you sods lazing around for, then?"

"Right," they mutter, moving to action, as their boss mutters something about informing the higher-ups.

Fearing for Potter's condition should Ron deal with him, Draco signals that he'll handle it. It's best for all of them if his partner manages the Roundhouses – he'd always been better with children, anyway.

Potter stirs under Draco's _Renervate_, blinking sluggishly. Draco stands over him, frowning as those blasted green eyes fixate on his.

"Huh," Potter says, his eyes gleaming. "I've always dreamed of waking up to your beautiful face."

Bloody – was Potter _flirting_ with him?

"Shut up," Draco bites out, shaken enough that he's unable to counter with the characteristic Malfoy wit.

Potter leers at him, suggestive.

"Seems like someone needs to get laid," he announces, and has the audacity to wink.

Though he privately agrees – not that that's any of Potter's business – Draco curses the cheeks he can feel heating and roughly drags Potter to his feet.

"Just shut up, Potter, or I'll make you."

Draco winces at the childish remark that just left his lips, doubly regretting it when Potter smirks and says he expects that from Ron, not him.

Hearing his name, Ron glances up from the whispered conversation he's having with the family – the boys, rather, seeing as Mrs Roundhouse has her head in her hands, still rocking slightly – and glares at Potter.

"Relax, mate, Draco's quite enjoying our chat. Aren't you, Draco?"

"I'm not your fucking mate," Ron growls, as Draco mutters that he definitely isn't.

"Touchy," Potter sing-songs, and Draco's had enough.

He shoves Potter forward, who staggers and plants his feet just in time to avoid crashing to the floor. Potter whips around, eyes blazing in fury.

"You try that again, Malfoy, and I'll _Crucio _you till your fucking eyes bleed," he hisses.

Though the effect Potter's going for is somewhat dampened by the fact that he's restrained – and isn't in possession of a wand, the man is still terrifying. Draco hopes his mask hides the chill he's feeling, but he suspects Potter probably knows.

"I'll see you back at Headquarters," he tells Ron, and grips Potter at the arm, leading him away.

Whatever good cheer Potter had shown has vanished, his demeanour frigid. It's so unlike the boy he'd known in school, who'd worn his heart on his sleeve, and managed a smile even in the darkest of times, that Draco can't help but feel for him.

As though reading his mind – Draco wouldn't put it past Potter to be a Legilimens – Potter struggled, attempting to break Draco's hold.

"I can walk just fine," he snarls. "Get your bloody hands off me."

Draco wonders if Potter see the irony in that; he won't deny he has blood on his hands, but he's sure Potter's are bloodier.

Draco tightens his grip instead, fisting Potter's robes.

"I'll charge you with resisting arrest," he warns.

Potter scoffs, and Draco presumes he's aware there's about a hundred other things higher up on his felony charge.

Draco ignores it.

"Just move," he orders.

His squad, bleeding and bruised but otherwise seemingly no worse for wear, look up sharply as they reach the landing; so do their snarling detainees. Potter stiffens, power rolling off him in waves.

"By Helga, it's really him," Solis breathes, and Draco respects her for not cringing away from Potter's immense presence – many Aurors would.

"I thought Laverde was taking the piss," McLaggen says. "How–"

Like he remembers who he's talking to, McLaggen cuts himself off and grumbles, "Don't you dare let him go."

Draco rolls his eyes; like he hasn't heard that from the prick every time they detain one of the Dark Lord's men. Before he can form a response, Potter jerks forward, getting in the faces of his compatriots.

"Don't give them a fucking word," he murmurs, loud enough for them all to hear.

It's enough to stop the Death Eaters' foul words and silky threats, and Draco wonders what exactly Potter has done to command such authority.

Draco pulls Potter back and drags him away, Branstone and Goldstein eyeing him pityingly, like they don't envy him having to handle Potter at all. In any case, they're probably right – anything goes wrong, and he's in a pile of shit.

Intent on getting Potter back to the Ministry without more unwanted interference, Draco digs his nails into Potter's arm in a bid to move him along. Potter doesn't so much as wince, but he glowers at Draco, his eyes a swirling pool of animosity.

Draco looks away first, he's ashamed to admit.

"Malfoy," he hears Laverde address him from the porch, "You waiting on You-Know-Who to show up?"

"Ooh, the Dark Lord would be pleased to see you, little Malfoy," one of the masked Death Eaters croon.

Whoever it is, though, at Potter's look, they turn away.

"Merlin, Malfoy, hurry up," Laverde snaps, and Draco does.

Potter grunts as Draco all but wrenches his shoulder to get him out the door, and Draco looks to Laverde for instructions. As soon as he gets the confirmation – "Rayburn Interrogation Room; we've got jurisdiction," – he nods and, rather anticlimactically, Apparates them away.

* * *

**A/N:**

Hi y'all,

This is, hopefully, the first chapter of many that explores a world where Harry's one choice in the Forbidden Forest alters the rest of history. As the world changes, so have and so will our characters, and I hope I've done them justice. It's a path that I don't think many have explored, so I'm taking a risk with this one - here's to hoping you'll enjoy.

I'll be simultaneously working on two fics at the same time, so please be patient, and if you're able, please go check out my other works.

Thanks for sticking around - I appreciate it.

Until next time,

paltropie


	2. Pride and Prejudice

**Chapter 2: Pride and Prejudice **

"What is tolerance? It is the consequence of humanity. We are all formed of frailty and error; let us pardon reciprocally each other's folly – that is the first law of nature."

― Voltaire

* * *

When they arrive in the bowels of the Ministry, in the Auror-only levels, and Potter's arm is still secure in his hand, Draco finally lets himself believe that they'd actually done it. He has the irrational urge to announce it to the building.

As if he'd picked up on it, Potter snarks.

"Thinking of parading me off to your colleagues, are you, Malfoy?"

Draco scowls and absently wonders if a wandless – and wordless – _Legilimens_ is within the realm of possibility.

In any case, hearing it put like that isn't flattering; it's just about the most foolish thing he can do. There's protocol to follow, and he cannot jeopardise this.

"Why, missing the attention already?" Draco fires back, satisfied when Potter snaps his jaw shut and visibly grits his teeth.

Now that he realises the hysteria Potter's presence would cause, Draco is grateful for the quiet. It would only take one unsavoury character and a pair of loose lips, and the entire Wizarding London would be banging their door down for news.

"Keep your head down," he hisses, praying the hallway remains empty.

Potter doesn't put up much of a fight as Draco leads him down the ramp to the interrogation rooms; it's unlike any arrest he's ever done, and he feels slightly off-balance with the simplicity of it. Ron's absence is palpable, and it'd do Draco's unease good for his partner to arrive soon.

Outside the Rayburn Interrogation Room, the first of the series of doors, Draco uses a moment to compose himself. It takes some effort for his heart to settle, but it does, and he finally presses his hand against the panel. Registering his magical signature, they're bidden entrance, and Potter looks around like he's admiring the place.

"Love what you've done with the place," Potter quips, and frustratingly, Draco almost smiles.

There's nothing to love, of course, in a room so white it's like whoever designed this place thought they could leach the darkness out of hardened criminals with a single blinding hue. Draco hates the aesthetic, but at least the benches are comfortable.

As the door slides shut, sealing them away from any would-be disruptions, Draco pushes Potter onto the bench, swapping his restraints for simple cuffs. They aren't magic-dampening, but Draco's confident – with first-hand experience – they will secure Potter in place, assuming, that is, that the Dark Lord himself won't break his right-hand man out of their custody.

Throughout it all, Potter smirks at him, even as Draco releases his hold and settles on his side of the table, back to the viewing wall. Never in his life daring to imagine this – even if he'd had, their positions were reversed – Draco reaches for the Dicta-Quill and looks Potter in the eyes, straightening his shoulders in reflex. He prays to Salazar that Potter doesn't screw him over.

"It is presently 11.03 a.m. on August 13, 2001. Specialist Auror Draco Lucius Malfoy in the Ministry of Magic, Rayburn Interrogation Room, to interview the known Death Eater, one Harry James Potter," Draco dictates, as is routine. "For the record, your first name is spelt H-A-R-R-Y and Potter is spelt P-O-T-T-E-R, correct?"

"Yes," Potter intones, free of inflection; Draco can't get a read on him.

"And your date of birth, please?"

"31st July 1980."

"Thank you," Draco says, out of civility, and commences the proceedings.

"Mr Potter, Harry – can I call you Harry?"

It feels weirdly intimate to call Potter by his christened name, but he takes the risk that this way, Potter would be more inclined to respond.

"You can call me whatever you like, Draco," Potter shrugs, nonchalant.

"Alright, then, Harry, we may as well cut to the chase. What was your intention–"

"Funny how it's taken us ten years to get to this point, huh?"

Thrown by the non-sequitur, and wondering part of _this_ Potter is referring to, Draco can only stare.

"Having a civil conversation," Potter elaborates, seemingly amused, and gives Draco a once-over that makes him squirm. "You know, now that that bloody scowl's off your face, you're not such a bad looking chap."

Draco can't begin to describe how strange that is, coming from his schoolyard rival, but he concedes that everything in this new world is strange these days, anyway.

"Uh, thanks?" he manages, though he really didn't need Potter's thoughts on the matter.

"My pleasure," Potter says, smirking, and it's at that point that Ron walks in.

Draco can almost feel the floor solidifying beneath his feet again, and absently he wonders how on earth he's come to reply so much on a Weasley.

"Well, well, if it isn't the coward," Ron starts, and waves a hand. "Harry Potter, the Boy Who Turned."

Draco suppresses a wince; he knows, to a Gryffindor, it's just about the worst thing you could call them. It'll probably be enough to get a rise out of Potter, but he also knows that that isn't Ron's only intention.

Over years of drunken rants, he's heard the lot; no matter that, like all young men, they'd tried to avoid the word, he knows that Ron loved Potter, had considered him nothing less than a brother, and the betrayal had crushed him. No, Ron's contempt is real, and if it stops him from blaming himself, Draco's more than happy to leave him to it.

"So, how's it going?" Ron continues, unrelenting, as he slaps a dossier down and perches on a corner of the table, getting in Potter's face. "Life with Tom everything you envisioned?"

Potter doesn't so much as flinch.

"Sure," he replies, calm and collected. "Haven't lost anyone close to me, yet."

Draco is morbidly impressed by Potter's wit, but he's crossed any and every line, and though he anticipates Ron's reaction, is too late to stop him. His partner lunges forward, and Potter's smugness vanishes as his face is smashed against the metal.

"What the fuck," he slurs, when Ron lets him up, blood streaming down his face.

Draco thinks the same, projecting his disapproval and hoping Ron picks up on it. He knows it won't matter though, won't even require additional documentation; they could shatter all the bones in Potter's wand hand, and the higher-ups wouldn't bat an eye. For the greater good, and all that.

"You deserved that, you prick," Ron growls.

Draco reaches for Ron, jerking his head at the seat beside him. Fierce as Ron is in his anger, Draco thinks it best to have a table between he and Potter.

Potter shifts his head, wiping the blood against his sleeves as best he can, as Ron complies, reluctantly.

"Fuck," Potter says again, testing his jaw gingerly. "You do that to everyone you arrest, or what?"

Ron answers before he can.

"No, just scum who can't watch their bloody mouths."

Potter narrows his eyes at them, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like "bastards". Draco ignores the urge to correct Potter on his parents' exact marital status at his conception and pushes on.

"I apologise, Harry, for my colleague's show of violence," Draco says; despite knowing just how sore a topic Fred Weasley still is, he doesn't condone Ron's actions. It's ironic, how they as law enforcement, who should be the most objective, were the most blatant in their hate.

"What is this, good cop bad cop?" Potter scoffs. "Are we in City Central?"

Draco catches Ron's eye, and is relieved to note that his partner is just as lost as he is.

"Fucking wizards," Potter mutters, rolling his eyes. "Whatever, just get on with it, I know you're dying to ask your questions."

In that, Potter isn't wrong.

So he acquiesces, as Potter spits more blood from his mouth, and trusts that what comes out of that mouth won't all be lies.

"Alright then, Harry, our most pressing matter at this point in time are the events of this morning," Draco begins.

"What were you and your buddies doing there, Potter?" Ron cuts in gruffly, before Draco can continue.

Potter shrugs, and his answer is blasé, so wrong coming from him.

"You know why, Ron. Some people don't deserve their magic, or their pathetic lives. We do what we do can to correct that."

It's all Draco can do not to let his disgust show.

"And what, Nigel Roundhouse deserved to die because of his lineage?"

The Dark Mark under his left sleeve twinges, a stark reminder that he'd once been so eager to believe in the same cause. Potter flicks an amused glance his way, as though he'd been the one to feel it.

"Partly, yes."

Draco shakes his head; he wants to laugh, wondering if Potter sees just how hypocritical his own logic is. It makes no sense, for this man, who'd taken offence to any slur aimed at a Muggleborn, to have as drastic a change in heart as this.

"You think Hermione deserves to die, then, do you?" Ron asks, as Draco attempts to reconcile this Potter with the one in his past.

"Now see, that's a completely different matter entirely," Potter says, like that explains everything.

"Don't play games with us, Potter," Ron growls, echoing what Draco is too unsettled to say. "Everyone in this country knows your mum was Muggleborn, would you have murdered her too?"

Potter's eyes harden almost instantaneously.

"Don't you fucking dare bring her into this," he hisses, cold enough for a weaker man to fold.

But Draco knows intimately that Ron hasn't survived this long on luck, and unphased, his partner leans back, folding his arms.

"Explain it to us, then," he challenges.

Ron stares Potter down, and unexpectedly, it's Potter who's the first to look away.

"It's complicated," Potter says, and now he sounds weary, like the weight of the world is on his shoulders.

To Draco, it's obvious, but Ron doesn't seem to realise the subtle shift in Potter's mood, and he pushes even further.

"What's so bloody complicated about it?" Ron exclaims, voice raising with every word. "Just admit it, you'd have cast the _Avada _yourself if you'd had the chance."

Ron shifts forward in his seat, as Draco continues to catalogue Potter's every movement.

"No, hang on, you know what? I think you'd have tortured her first, like you did with Nigel Roundhouse; make her pay, a _Crucio_ for every insult against your blood. Then, you'd move on to your dad, for sullying himself with filth like that. And you'd be laughing as you did it, wouldn't you, like that bitch Lestrange."

Potter is silent, unreactive, but Draco doesn't kid himself in thinking that Potter's not affected by this at all. He can't see Potter's hands, but he imagines they're fisted tight enough for his nails to break skin.

"How many people have you rendered insane, huh?" Ron continues. "Neville, yeah, you remember him, what happened to his parents? What's it feel like to be the ones who put them there?"

Ron lets the room fall into silence, and after a tense moment Potter breaks it.

"I fail to see the point in this line of questioning," he says, voice tight. "I didn't think the Ministry would care what my motives were, in order to charge me."

Ron smiles, all teeth, and Draco reaffirms that his partner can be terrifying when he wants to be.

"Oh, you're getting the Kiss, anyway, no matter what you say. So don't worry, it's just to satisfy my personal curiosity."

Of course, Ron can't say that for certain – it's a possibility, but Shacklebolt's made his distaste of that sentence known and it's far more likely Potter gets life. But Potter doesn't know that, and it seems mention of the Dementors have finally rattled him.

"Scared, Potter?" Draco asks, as Potter flinches.

This time, Potter doesn't counter with a "You wish," nor does Draco fling a snake Potter's way. But all the same, Draco feels that eerie sense of déjà vu, that vein of surprise, as the floor goes out from under him when Potter murmurs,

"I'm not a Death Eater."

He and Ron share a glance, and he knows they're both thinking the exact same thing.

"What the hell do you mean, you're not a Death Eater?" Ron explodes. "We just caught you red-handed, for one, and for two, bloody You-Know-Who himself announced it to the whole fucking world."

"Yeah, well, like I said, it's complicated," Potter shrugs.

"Uncomplicate it for us," Ron barks.

Potter sighs, and it's like he's releasing years of pent-up emotion.

"My left arm," Potter answers. "You can see for yourself."

Never let it be said that Draco is a fool, but here, he has trouble processing Potter's words. Logically, he understands what Potter hints at, but believing it is something else – surely, if an un-Marked Potter managed to commit the atrocities he had, what hope did the rest of them have?

But his curiosity weighs out, and hesitantly, Draco gets to his feet.

"You don't actually believe the fucker, do you?" Ron says, trying to tug Draco back down.

The world's shifted enough times that at this point, Draco doesn't know what he believes. He looks at Ron and hopes what's showing on his face is answer enough.

_It's fine_, he tries to say, and Ron seems to get it, because Ron lets him, with only a "Don't try anything," aimed at Potter.

"You don't always have to expect the worst of people, Ron," Potter intones, whether ironic or not, Draco can't say. But considering who's speaking, it reassures neither of them.

Potter nods, though, as if acknowledging the point. He stiffens as Draco draws nearer and bends over to shift his sleeve – and just as he'd said, Potter's arm is bare; littered with cuts and bruises, but free of the snake and skull tattoo that marks Draco's own.

"He's telling the truth," Draco breathes.

Ron's eyes snap to his, and from the concern he's projecting, the storm roiling in Draco's eyes must be plain. He turns his back to Potter, and mercifully, for once in his life, the man doesn't comment on it.

"I'll tell you everything," Potter offers instead, addressing Ron. "Names, dates, locations, but you have to let me walk."

Draco's frustration, bubbling under his skin, surfaces, before Ron can say anything. It's not like him to lose his cool, but Potter has always been the exception.

"Who the hell do you think you are? Just because you're Harry bloody Potter, you think you have the right –"

He slams a fist against the table, sending a shock up his arm. Him and Ron being terrible at healing spells, he'll regret it later, but for now, it's but a distraction.

"Draco," he hears, and suddenly, Ron's hand is on his shoulder. "Come on, let's take a minute."

It's a marvel, but Ron's always understood him better than he's understood himself. He nods and turning back around to face Potter, narrows his eyes at him.

"Don't bloody move."

Potter nods at his restraints, and a quiet "Not going anywhere," is all he hears as he follows Ron out. He's never regretted being an Auror, but whatever this is, it come close. He hopes, for Potter's sake, that he has something good to give them.

* * *

**A/N:**

Hey y'all,

I'm not sure how I feel about this chapter, but either way, I hope it was relatively enjoyable. I can't thank you enough for reading this far - I wouldn't still be writing, were it not for your support.

Until next time,

paltropie


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